Remission

I'm starting to think you don't ever recover from an eating disorder.
You're just in remission.
The beast could return, years after you thought the war was over and won.
The beast is hungry so you must remain hungry, empty, but full.
Just one meal.
Just a few pounds.
A couple inches off.
The seduction rarely fails to fill your senses with promises you know won't be kept.
But still.
Just a little more.
Every time, just a little more.
The beast feeds on one dropped pants size, five more minutes on the treadmill, 200 fewer calories, count your ribs, 600 calories a day, an hour at the gym and a walk home.
I was in remission.
The beast smelled Christmas dinner.
We're both awake now.